The Hawk Stoops
by khaitosfren
Summary: SHIELD'S Med facility is taken hostage. Except for the archer asleep in the ceiling.


The Hawk Stoops

This story was inspired by a line from Spun's "Nobody Panic This Time" And a dare by J. Thanks! Thanks to John D and TAC Matt for their consulting. Thanks for the sense of humor, guys!

I own no rights to the Avengers, their Characters, or to Marvel. I also own no rights to NERF.

First fiction.

Rated T for language.

Chapter 1

Skirmish

It _looked_ like a good day in New York. The two men in the nondescript sedan thought so. Seth and Tom had been waiting for this day, and wanted it to be memorable for everyone. Especially SHIELD.

The plan was simple: wait for targets, hit hard, get the hell out. Others would take over from there, telling their story, and the government's (and SHIELD'S) assaults on freedom and those who defended it.

Tom sat up and hissed at Seth in the back seat, as a compact man in a hooded sweatshirt and jacket slammed out of the building, turning to argue furiously with the man behind him. The dude was low level, but the suit was obviously _Somebody._ Perfect. Tom eased the car forward as Seth raised his weapon.

Even in the middle of an argument he was bound to lose, Clint Barton's hawk eyes missed nothing; the car, the open windows, the rifle barrel coming up… he exploded into motion, his right arm knocking Coulson into an untidy heap on the sidewalk, his left hand pulling and throwing a knife so fast Tom almost didn't see it happen.

He did hear Seth gasp and a clatter-what the hell- was he _hit_? _Shit_ he hit the gas and swung away from the curb. There was _notime-Holy SHIT_! as the man leaped at the car-_shit!-_ almost landing IN the front seat _HolyMotherof_ his head smashed into the door frame-then the world exploded as his face hit the steering wheel. He may not have felt himself hit the door frame again. He probably also missed getting rear ended by the cab behind them, driving the sedan into the box truck in front like a nail in a board. He might have been pleased that his attacker was flung off, but he missed that too.

Agile as he was, Barton had no chance of avoiding the truck either. He barely managed to turn slightly and duck as he hit, sliding bonelessly under the truck where he was almost overlooked by the first agents arriving on the scene.

Chapter 2

Regroup

Nick Fury seemed to apparate to the scene at Coulson's voice over the comm: "Agents down! West entrance!" He arrived to find Coulson still on the ground, looking terrifying. Agents and medical staff were swarming Coulson, the wreckage, the two men in the sedan, and a very defensive cab driver. He scanned the scene, noting everything but one missing man. He looked at Coulson, who shook his head.

"AGENT DOWN! WHERE IS BARTON?" Fury in a rage had once briefly reminded Thor of All Father Odin- a fact he kept to himself.

Galvanized, the agents quickly spotted Barton's huddled form under the truck and called for medical assistance.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day was not looking all that great at SHIELD'S medical unit. On the secure wing, the two prisoners looked to survive, but neither was talking, due to a fractured skull and a knife wound to the throat, respectively. Facial recognition programs had ID them as members of the American Freedom Defenders Militia. The group, based in Md and NJ, was known to SHIELD and other government agencies, but usually more for secrecy and fiery rhetoric. What was going on?

On the next corridor, things were unpleasant for the Avengers as well. Phil Coulson, still flat on his back with a broken ankle and severe vertigo from hitting his head, was seriously pissed at his roommate, and not bothering to hide it. For Coulson, master of the thousand yard stare, (SHIELD legend said he had turned a man to stone once with that look) that was pissed indeed.

His roommate was holding up under it well. Barton was conscious after several anxious hours, but kept pretending he wasn't in order to ignore Coulson. Propped onto his left side, back to the room, Clint was in a lot of pain with a concussion, (nothing new for him) cracked ribs, (nothing new there either) and a fractured shoulder blade. Even Tony Stark had paused for a moment at that one. Just one.

"Something new to do, Errol? Or do you have a check list?"

This wild overreach at humor earned him glares from everyone in the room. Even Coulson.

Stark left the room abruptly, muttering about updating Natasha. She was on her way back from unspecified business on the West Coast, and_ nobody _was looking forward to her reaction to this mess.

This left Steve and Bruce to continue the argument with Coulson on their team mate's behalf. _Yes_, Barton had stormed out of a meeting. _Yes,_ he had knocked his superior on his ass. And _yes_, he had, in fact, brought a knife to a gunfight. But, Clint stomping out of a meeting was nothing new (The Hawk did not suffer fools. And his definition was broader than most.); he had in fact _won_ the gunfight; and_ Coulson_ could have landed better. Suffering from a thunderous headache, Clint was content to focus on nothing more demanding than the candy stash Thor had brought.

Stark returned, sliding a bundle wrapped in what looked like a T shirt into the bedside table. Clint carefully raised an eyebrow.

"All of it?"

Stark shrugged. "Three. Shield has one. Along with your other ordinance." A cautious nod**.** "Your little black case. Glue. Your dre- why do you even _carry_ a dremel?"

"You don't?"

" And that project for you to look over. When you're ready, Locksley."

This raised a wobbly smile from Clint and suspicious looks from the other Avengers. Clint was more than capable of finding trouble without help- thank you very much, Tony. Long experience said he would break for the ventilation system as soon as nobody had eyes on him. He had a nest there somewhere where it was quiet and comfortable- rumor gave it a beer cooler- and away from the doctors.

The team was sympathetic, but their friend was still too unstable to wander off alone, Coulson or not. They arranged to take turns watching and offering support and mediation as needed.

Bruce and Steve slipped in around 11 to find Coulson snoring, Thor's head on his chest, and the far bed empty. Bruce facepalmed and shook his head; Steve sighed, then smiled. Let Natasha order him out when she got here. He'd sleep better tonight where he was. He glanced at Thor and saw blue eyes twinkling back at him and a smile. Coulson's eyes were still closed, but there was a distinct smirk on his face. The hawk was in his nest.

Chapter 3

Battle Joined

Clint woke abruptly, confused. In his vent, almost buried in blankets, it was dark and quiet. What had he heard? Movement was not attractive, but he felt uneasy. Suck it up, Clint. He worked himself out of his mammoth bedding pile, aching everywhere. Very carefully he worked himself to the nearest duct cover to listen. There. Footsteps. Several sets of booted feet. Not med staff. What the hell? Not SHIELD at this hour. Voices, low at first, then rising to outrage, anger. A scuffle, blows. More voices, this time from the door on South. A gunshot. Shit. Invasion.

"All right folks, I know it's early. Too bad. We're here to pick up some friends and get out. Help us out and get back to your jobs. Otherwise, it will get messy." Heading this way, toward Central. How many? Clint strained to count, to figure… leader. Driver- forget him for now. Footsteps, splitting up… corridors. Two to move their men? Specialist? Too many not to have been seen. What else? Clint tried to clear his foggy head. This was going to get ugly. Think! Doors, North and South. 6…7? They would block the doors immediately... Shots. Yep. The doors. Shit, shit, shit.

"Ok, they know we're here. Finally. We begin. SHIELD won't make a move yet, we have the floor and their people."

"Doctor- how many people on the floor? Staff, and patients. And where?"

"Six staff." Ralston. Good man. For medical. "Myself, two nursing, three assistants. Patients? The two men brought in yesterday. Yours?" Silence.

"Two surgical cases on West. South, one orthopedic case."

"Why are there six charts, Dr Ralston? Where is your sixth patient?" This guy was no fool, whoever he was.

Neither was Ralston. "He left against medical advice. Couldn't stop him." Clint grinned. True. Good man.

The phone rang.

Boss, as Clint had dubbed him, gave some muttered instructions. Clint caught "packs". Mining the doors. Negotiate, then make their stand. They have to know they won't walk out. Suicide group?

"Speaker on"

"This is SHIELD Director Fury. May I ask who you are and what you are doing in my building at this hour?"

"Ah, Director Fury, the man who plays at God. You may call me Crow, coming home to roost."

"Haven't played that role lately, Crow. Why are you here?"

"To pick up our friends and leave peacefully. What else?"

"You tell me. You sound smart. You know walking out won't happen unless it's with hands in the air."

"Then we wait. The doors have charges. We are armed, and are entertaining 11 guests while others tell our story. And tell about the attempts to wipe us, and others like us out. About Hank Fletcher.

Of course, we will wait only so long before making our own statement." Click.

The Avengers joined Fury and his men during the call.

"Who are these guys? What is this?" This from Bruce.

"American Freedom Defenders Militia. Making a statement" Stark was deep in his tablet.

"These are Barton's guys? What are they saying?"

"That they, and groups like them have been targeted for harassment, prosecution, and in some cases, assassination. Some guy named Fletcher." Heads swiveled his way. He shrugged.

"Facebook. And Youtube. They don't seem to mention Barton's audition for the newest Bourne movie yesterday."

"Do they have Barton?"

"No." Steve. "He said 11 people, not 12."

"This does not sound good." This from Bruce.

"What, these guys, or their claims?" Stark. "A number of sites are making noise about this. And about the government's history towards radicals, would-be revolutionaries, dropouts, cults. You know. Kent State, Ruby Ridge, Waco… Who is this Hank Fletcher?"

Fury answered. "Member of a very large family known best for sporting guns and hunting and archery gear…"

"Fletcher Arms," Tony nodded.

"Some of the family are involved in politics of a decidedly non-mainstream persuasion. Hank was the leader of one of these branches. Allied with a number of other groups. He was killed 3 weeks ago when his weapons cache exploded while he was apparently standing next to it."

"_What?_" Steve turned to stare at Fury, then Tony. "Is the government harassing agitators? _Killing_ them?"

_(Are Natasha? Or Clint? _hung in the room.)

"NO!" Fury. "Yes. Government agencies, including SHIELD, keep an eye on certain groups or individuals, foreign or domestic, whose words or actions mark them as a potential threat to our country. THAT IS OUR JOB. And yes, we have moved, after much soul searching, to remove a danger, to avoid an event like another Oklahoma City, another base attack. Or a bridge bombing. To keep our country safe. What would you do?" Fury's face was older. Steve bowed his head.

"Where do you draw the line?" Bruce's face was strained.

"Where will you?" Fury jerked his head at the doors to the medical unit. "Where do you think Barton will draw the line? Look at the websites. This will be bloody. Do we wait?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Clint was full mission mode, eyeing the setup. Semtex charges at the doors. Manual detonators. Men on each corridor, 3 at Central. And Crow. Handguns, some semi-automatic rifles. The men looked resigned and resolute; nothing to lose. Bad sign.

8 men… need to thin the herd before trying to get people in. Weapons… not too bad. His knives. Guns would be noisy, and his bow would be worse than useless in the vent system. Stay away from hand to hand. Tony's project- tweaking Clint's beloved NERF gun-or more specifically, its darts… maybe as a distraction. Bring it along, and the glue. Thank you, Tony. You can get guns as you go.

But carrying things when all you're wearing is a pair of scrub pants requires thought. Knife sheaths on forearm and calf, as usual. Third, on the back. Mmph, no. Ok. Everything else in the T Shirt, over the shoulder. Let's go, Barton.

Slow. Dizzy. He can use his right arm, but it's not fun. Along with the bones, the muscles were smashed and protesting every move.

Well, he'd had worse. Time to rain hell, Clint.

The guy on West walked the corridor every few minutes. Bored. Antsy. And out of sight. Clint eased his way out of the vent in the last room, trying not to hiss in pain. He waited inside the door for the next pass. The man never felt the knife that killed him. Grab his handgun. There was no way Clint was going to be able to haul the guy into the ducts. So. Out the window. Quietly. Back to hunting.

Clint did not think of these men dying. They were targets, threats to innocent agents and friends. Head for East. The secure unit. With a stop to make on the way.

Phil Coulson was biding his time. The dizziness he felt whenever he moved his head would pass. He would get an opening, and there would be hell to pay. Barton was probably already at work. Coulson smiled to himself. The Hawk had no sense of self preservation. God help those men.

There was a faint scraping above him as the vent cover opened. Something heavy landed perilously close to his crotch. He grabbed it reflexively and his hands closed over a handgun. A Sig Sauer P229. Nice, Barton. He buried it in his pillow as the cover closed. No sense at all.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was a flurry of noise and movement in the main hallway as Natasha Romanoff strode toward her team, scattering agents around her like balls on a pool table. Her face was composed as always, but there was an energy coming off her that was frightening.

"Where are we?"

Fury's explanation was brief and to the point. She nodded calmly.

"I'll go."

"No." This from everyone.

"Barton is in there injured and on his own. He won't wait. They'll figure out who Coulson is, that Clint is missing. They'll be after him."

"Agent Romanoff, we are trying to get Cap in there to take a door back so we can get people in. We need information, but too many agents in there will attract attention. If Barton could get us some information it would help. He didn't leave a note when he threw their guy out the window."

"Maybe he didn't have a pencil." Everyone turned to look at Bruce.

"What _does _he have?" Natasha demanded.

Tony answered. "Three of his knives. Lock picks, I think. His dremel tool. Super glue. And.. Um, his Nerf gun and some darts."

"WHAT?" Everyone.

"I know, nobody needs a dremel that often…"

"Mother of God, Stark…" Steve's patience was short.

"I thought he'd like a project. We were working on amping up the gun and pimping out the ammo."

"How, exactly?" Fury

"Well, the new darts can be rigged to accept different loads; you know, blades, hypos, pepper spray- that's the payload he has."

Fury's eyebrow was rising toward the ceiling. "Why are you making lethal dart guns?"

"We were bored."

"OK, you two are no longer allowed to hang out unsupervised after this is over." Fury returned to matters at hand.

"Natasha, you follow Cap when he goes in." No response. Everyone looked around.

Fury sighed and closed his eye. "Agent Romanoff, tell me you are wearing your comm unit."

Silence.

"This does not mean she is not," Thor offered. "She may be busy".

Fury tried again. "Agent Romanoff, any information you care to share would be appreciated."

"Copy." A whisper. Steve smiled, just a little.

Chapter 4

End Game

Clint rested a moment. He was very dizzy, his ribs were screaming, and his shoulder was threatening to shut down was over the locked room on East holding his pals from yesterday. They were both deeply unconscious. _Good. _Complication. A buddy was with them. Dozing. Was this the guy in the corridor? Clint thought hard. Damn, that hurts. No, different guy. Ok, this man first, then the man outside. Breathe. Steady. He eased the vent cover open. This guy was fast. He was on his way to his feet when Clint's amped up NERF dart hit him just below the eye. No matter. The tip, rather than foam, was a large soft pellet filled with custom strength pepper spray that shattered as it struck, splashing hell into his eye. As he opened his mouth in shock, a second dart hit him in the back of his throat. He collapsed, gagging. Clint slid to the floor, grabbed the man's gun and hit him hard enough to make him forget his throat.

Oops. The man outside heard something and came in fast. The dart gun in Clint's right hand fired in reflex. Eye shot. Left hand grabs the knife on his forearm. One thrust. Done. Catch him before he hits the floor. Damn, man. Bad idea. Don't do _that_ again.

Lock the door and jam it with Tony's "super hero" glue- I love you Tony. It will slow them down. Not long. Not much time left. Head for South. Hurry. They'll come in North first, through the ceiling. Get South door open. Get going Clint. No time left.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Steve was ready to go. He would go in through the ceiling and drop just inside the door, taking out the bomb and anyone in reach. Thor would come in South, with SHIELD behind him. The hope was that Clint, or Natasha, (or both) would have taken some men down. Barton's actual condition was unknown.

"Sir?" Crow turned sharply.

"No sign of Ty or Jim. The door on that side is jammed, we don't know how, no answer inside."

"They're in there."

"What? Sir?"

"They're inside. _They have not left_._ Joe_ did not _just leave_. They are in _that room_, and someone put them there."

"Sir? Who…"

Crow was already at the phone.

"Director Fury!"

"Crow?"

"We have a small problem here. You have a big one. I suggest you call him off immedia-"

"I sent no one in there, Crow."

"-immediately, or you will have new deaths on your conscience. If you have one."

"Any deaths are on you, Cr…" click.

"Dr Ralston.. Where is your sixth patient?"

"I told you he left AMA last evening, with head, rib and shoulder injuries."

"I think not. May I see his chart, which I see has been moved? Now, please."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Get ready, Rogers"

A bare whisper over the comm.

"Detonators are hand held. They're missing men. They're on the move."...

"They've made Clint."

"Cap, GO!"

Clint also heard Crow's voice, and knew he was out of time. Get the guy at South door. Out of the duct, no need to worry about noise now. The man in the corridor came charging in. Idiot. Shoot him. Grab the detonator. Into the toilet with it.

"AGENT BARTON. YOU WILL COME INTO THE HALL IMMEDIATELY. In five seconds I will shoot Dr Ralston, your protector, then Agent Coulson, your roommate. Then I will come for you."

Clint stepped into the hall, hands raised. Left hand raised.

"I am impressed, Agent. You are very, very good." Crow and the man Clint had seen at Central had their guns trained on him.

"In here, please"

Clint followed him into Coulson's room.

"Before I kill your friend, and then you, where is my detonator?"

The Hawk eyed his prey. "In the toilet. Like your crappy plan."

A furious backhand blow with the gun took Clint to his knees. It was followed by a rain of blows (kicks?) to his shoulder and ribs. Oh God… give me one shot back… He fought to stay conscious, and dimly heard what had to be Cap taking the door. There was another crash, the thud of heavy feet, and the sound of somebody hitting a wall very hard. Thor. About time, guys.

Crow swore. Clint reached for the knife on his calf. Go down fighting.

Two shots roared, so close together they almost sounded like one report. Crow dropped beside him. Another body fell nearby.

Coulson. And Clint knew who had fired the other shot. He'd always known she would be there.

The Black Widow climbed gracefully out of the vent opening and walked over to him, eyeing Coulson as well. He was leaning on the bed rail, but more or less upright.

Clint dropped onto his butt as Cap and Thor ran in, Tony and Bruce in the hall behind them.

Natasha took his arm to pull him up, muttering in Russian. Definitely not endearments.

"No, just let me sit here a minute. I'm fine, just… _damn_ it Natasha, that _hurts_!"

"Don't be such a baby Barton. Get up."

"If I puke on you, it's _yo__**u**__r_ fault. And I know how you love that."

"Fine." Natasha stalked out of the room, the Avengers staring. Russian again. Seriously rude Russian. Ralston followed her.

Clint took his own advice and heaved, head and ribs promising vengeful payback.

He sat, head drooping, rousing a bit when Coulson tossed him a towel to wipe his mouth. Coulson looked at Steve.

"How long was she in there?"

"Hour, hour and a half."

Clint and Coulson looked at each other . Clint managed a smile, and then they were giggling like third graders as the others stared. No one ever heard Coulson laugh like that.

When they finally got it together, Bruce asked "Something to share?"

"Agent Romanoff is a touch claustrophobic," Coulson answered.

"She's probably looking for someone to beat up," Clint added. "She'll be back. Cap?"

Steve clasped Clint's left arm and lifted him carefully to his feet. Clint leaned on him heavily, and Steve was worried to feel his friend, the toughest of them all, shaking all over.

He straightened as Bruce and Ralston came in with a wheelchair.

"Oh hell, no. I'm going home." Clint said.

"Clint. You are in shock and in pain. We need to treat that. And we need to make sure that you have not been injured further." Or much further.

"Then you can go home." Bruce was implacable.

Dr Ralston spoke, "Agent Barton, we all owe you our gratitude here. Please accept gracefully." He had a padlock in his hand. He'd used it on the vent cover before. Crap.

Clint sighed. "Fine."

Natasha returned, Fury in tow.

"I brought you something I found in your bloody crawl space." It was Clint's dart gun. They hugged each other. Carefully.

Fury said "Please tell me you did not go after terrorists with that." Barton shrugged.

"It worked, then?" Stark demanded. Clint held up two fingers.

"Told you."

"Why not a damn light saber?" Fury had to ask.

"Too heavy." Clint assured him.

"Crazy bastards."

Clint held up his dart gun and blew away an imaginary puff of smoke. And smiled.

Epilogue

The next morning, while he was still asleep, the wall outside SHIELD'S cafeteria sported a life size photo of a shirtless Clint Barton looking sideways over his NERF gun, wearing the smirk that had driven his superiors insane for years. As well as a lot of women. And a more than a few men.

The caption read:

WHEN A BOW WON'T DO: THE WEAPON OF CHOICE FOR SHIELD'S BAMF.

Naturally, a copy hung in the Tower that night.


End file.
